


the choices we make (don’t think too hard)

by teenybeanie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, POV Stiles Stilinski, Possibly Blackmail, Shameless Smut, Stiles Stilinski is Legal, everyone is legal, flimsy plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28003038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenybeanie/pseuds/teenybeanie
Summary: Stiles needs something from Peter, and Peter demands a favor in return.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21
Collections: Cat’s Holiday Exchange 2020





	the choices we make (don’t think too hard)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlwaysWatching](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysWatching/gifts).



> A gift for the lovely AlwaysWatching, based on the prompt ‘a “favor” is owed’. I felt it in my soul when you said: “There’s nothing quite like hating someone but still finding them irresistible.” This doesn’t take place at any particular point in canon, this is just a throwaway scenario where everyone is over 18. Enjoy!

_I don’t have a choice._ Stiles swallows hard. His hand is reaching out for the door handle, but it doesn’t feel like his hand, it feels like he’s watching someone else’s hand reach out and pull the door open.

_No choice._

If he thinks it hard enough, maybe he’ll convince himself. The door is sliding open, and the loft beyond is dark, lit only by the moon gazing through the window. No sound, no movement, and Stiles’ knees go weak with relief at the emptiness. There’s no one here, so maybe the choice /has/ been taken out of his hands, fate or destiny or whatever has decided for him tonight. Something like disappointment pulses deep down in his belly, underneath the relief, but it’s ignored. For the first time, he believes what he’s been repeating to himself over and over again.

_I don’t have a choice._

But a deep chuckle emanates from an unlit corner, and the relief vanishes.

“I knew you’d take me up in my offer.”

—

_“Never.”_

_“Never is a very long time, Stiles, and something tells me Lydia doesn’t have that much time left. You need the blueprints to Eichen House, and all I’m asking for is a little favor in return.”_

_“You’re a sick, twisted bastard!”_

_“The choice is entirely up to you, Stiles. I know you’ll make the right one.”_

—

“You didn’t give me a choice.”

Peter laughs again, a dark sinister sound that echoes around the room. “We both know that’s not true, don’t we? You’re only here because you want to be.”

“I’m here because I _have_ to be!” Stiles’ voice is loud, too loud, but not loud enough to hide the way it wavers. He does not need to see Peter to know he is smiling.

“I’m not the only one with blueprints to Eichen House, Stiles. There are other ways to acquire what you say you want. But you’re here.” Peter steps out of the shadows, tight black shirt and jeans and blue eyes glinting. “With me.”

Stiles wants to say no, wants to shout it out: _I don’t have a choice_! Scott called his father to get a copy of the blueprints, but it’ll be days before he’s able to get them, and who knows what will happen to Lydia in the meantime? _She doesn’t have much time left._ But Stiles can’t picture Lydia’s face, even though he’s trying, trying so hard to remember her lips, her hair, the sound of her voice.

All he can see are glowing blue eyes.

Peter saunters over to the table beneath the window and leans back against it. Something behind him catches Stiles’ eye, a small cylindrical case in the middle of the table. _The blueprints._ Peter’s stance is wide and relaxed. _Why are they out in the open? Why isn’t he hiding them?_ With the window behind him, Peter’s face is shadowed. All Stiles can see are those eyes and the glint of his teeth as he smiles. _I could take them, I could run_. But he can’t seem to focus on the case. His attention is pulled in by the sheer force of the man standing in front of it.

“You can leave, Stiles,” says Peter. “You can walk out of here right now, and I won’t stop you.” He widens his stance even more, his jeans stretching tight over— “Or you can come over here and we can get started.”

For a long moment, Stiles is deafened by the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He can’t blink, and everything in his field of vision is going fuzzy, except for— _don’t think, don’t think, don’t think about it. No choice._ And his feet, his feet that don’t feel like his feet, his feet that must belong to someone else, like his hand, like the rest of his body, his feet start to move. One step, two steps— _don’t count, don’t think, no choice, no choice_ — and then he’s only an arm’s length away from the man with the glowing blue eyes.

He can’t hear anything except his own heartbeat, but Peter doesn’t need to say anything at all. He said it all before. _Don’t think, don’t_ — but it’s too late, and the memory rises, unbidden:

_“I want you to put that smart mouth to good use.”_

“Kneel.”

Stiles’ knees are collapsing. They hit the ground hard and the shock reverberates through him, numbing him enough that he can’t feel his hands as they reach out and come to rest on Peter’s jean-clad thighs. These hands aren’t his, they can’t be, even though he can see the white scar on his left thumb that he got while climbing through Scott’s window last year. The muscles under his palms are firm, probably as hard as— _don’t think, don’t think_ — and as warm as— _DON’T THINK, DON’T TH—_

“Here, let me help you out.” Peter’s hands are much larger than his own, and they take their time with the button at his waist. The sound of the zipper is obscenely loud and wrong— _and so right DON’T THINK_ — and there’s only skin underneath. For an absurd moment, Stiles wonders: _Boxers or briefs?_

But the thought vanishes as Peter’s right hand comes to rest on top of his head. Heavy and implacable and reassuring, guiding Stiles’ head forward. Time is moving too fast and too slow, and Stiles inhales deeply as his mouth falls open. The air around Peter smells cold and crisp, almost sharp enough to bite—

And completely at odds with the hot hardness that settles on his tongue. It fills his mouth completely. The thoughts of _no choice_ and _don’t think_ vanish as Stiles closes his eyes. There’s no more room for any thoughts at all, just the sensations. For the first time in his life, Stiles’ brain goes completely quiet.

Peter guides his head forward until he’s nudging at the back of Stiles’ throat and stops, letting him choke a little. Then the hand lets him retreat, not very far because then his head is moving forward again, the same pattern repeated. Stiles can do nothing but exist in this moment with no thoughts.

“Very good,” sighs Peter. The words curl through Stiles’ insides, and a moan rises up, chocked off as Peter pushes him forward again. If Stiles still had any thoughts, he would wonder if Peter felt that moan, felt it vibrate up his length. His hands clench on Peter’s thighs and he swallows.

“Yes,” hisses Peter, and he lets go of Stiles’ head and grips the edge of the table behind him. Stiles is adrift without the guiding hand, but his body keeps the rhythm that Peter set, back and forth and back. His tongue refuses to stay still, tracing the underside of the cock in his mouth. The taste is salty and warm. Another moan rises, but Stiles swallows it back down.

Time no longer exists. Stiles’ knees start to ache, his jaw sore from being stretched so wide, but these are distant things, happening to a body that is not his body. Nothing exists but the taste and the smell and the rhythm, back and forth. Swallow and swallow again, the bitter taste of precum diluted by his saliva. The rest of the world has fallen away. They are the only ones left.

His heart starts beating faster. As if in response, Peter’s hand returns to its rightful place atop his head, guiding him again, the rhythm accelerating. Pulling him closer until his face is pressed against the warm flesh of Peter’s stomach, the cock in his mouth trapping those moans deep within. He inhales through his nose, the cool crisp scent making him dizzy, trying not to gag.

Peter’s fingers tighten in his hair, almost to the point of pain, and he groans as he fills Stiles’ mouth with bitter liquid warmth. There’s no pulling away, Peter’s grip is like iron, so Stiles gulps, barely tasting what Peter pours down his throat.

Too many heartbeats later, Stiles feels the fingers in his hair uncurl, pushing him back, letting go. Unsteady, he collapses back onto his heels and looks up. Those blue blue eyes are looking down at him from above flushed cheeks and a wicked smile. And it all comes rushing back:

_taste touch feel so good DON’T THINK Lydia NO CHOICE my choice NO CHOICE!_

He’s lurching to his feet, but before he can back away, Peter’s hand reaches out and cups—

“In the future, perhaps we can do more favors for each other.”

Stiles turns on his heel and runs, away from the thoughts and sensations and those blue eyes.

When he skids breathlessly to a stop next to his Jeep, he feels no relief in the discovery of the blueprint case, clutched tightly in his fist.

**Author's Note:**

> It was kinda fun playing around with Stiles not wanting to think about how much he wants Peter and trying to convince himself he has no choice.
> 
> Comments always appreciated (although I take no criticism now or ever ;p)
> 
> All my love to AlwaysWatching <3


End file.
